The wind carried the scent of blood.
Ronan stood still, his heart pounding against his ribs. The adrenaline from the fight still pulsed in his veins, raw and untamed. The bandit's gasping breath echoed in his ears, the way the man had scrambled away, eyes wide with terror.
Not from Doomfang.
From him.
His hands were steady now, but the sensation of power had not faded. It coiled inside him, thick and restless, a beast barely leashed. For a moment, when he had held the bandit's throat, he had felt it—how easy it would be to squeeze, to end it.
And worse…
Part of him had wanted to.
The thought left a sick feeling in his gut.
Doomfang's voice cut through the silence. You fought well.
Ronan glanced at the wyvern, his golden eyes unreadable. "I lost control."
You did not lose control, Doomfang corrected. You restrained yourself.
The wyvern studied him for a long moment before continuing. That hunger you feel—it is natural. You have taken the first step, and now the beast inside you stirs. But it is not the hunger itself that makes one fall. It is whether you choose to feed it.
Ronan exhaled, forcing himself to steady his breath. He wasn't sure which was more frightening: the power itself, or how good it had felt to use it.
But he couldn't dwell on it now. The fight was over, but the world would not stop moving.
He turned toward the fallen bandit. The one Doomfang had slashed lay motionless in the dirt, his breath shallow, blood soaking the earth beneath him. His companion had fled, but this one…
He wasn't dead. Not yet.
Ronan hesitated, then knelt beside the man. The bandit's eyes fluttered open, clouded with pain and fear. He tried to speak, but coughed weakly instead, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips.
Ronan swallowed, gripping his knee. "Why were you here?"
The bandit's breathing hitched.
Ronan felt something then—a pull.
Not magic, not the beast's hunger. Something else. A shift in the air, as if the world itself held its breath.
This man is afraid.
It was obvious, but it wasn't just fear of dying. It was fear of something else.
Ronan narrowed his eyes. "You weren't just after my stone."
The bandit coughed again, his fingers twitching as if trying to grab something—his belt, a satchel—a message.
Ronan reached for it first, pulling the bloodstained scrap of parchment from the man's belt. The moment his fingers touched it, the bandit gasped a final, shuddering breath.
Then he was still.
Silence.
Ronan stared down at the parchment, heart pounding. Doomfang watched over his shoulder, silent.
Slowly, Ronan unfolded the note.
His blood turned to ice.
Marked for Death
The parchment was rough and dirt-stained, but the ink was fresh. The words were scrawled hastily, as if written in urgency.
"Target confirmed. The Forsaken has awakened. Orders remain: kill him before he fully manifests."
The signature at the bottom was a symbol, not a name—a twisted insignia of a black claw gripping an eye.
A crest Ronan did not recognize.
His hands tightened around the paper.
So this hadn't been random.
It wasn't about the stone, or the wyvern, or even robbery.
They had known who he was.
Who he was becoming.
And someone—somewhere—wanted him dead before he could reach his full potential.
Doomfang rumbled lowly. Assassins.
Ronan nodded slowly, his mind racing. If this was an order, that meant someone had sent it. Someone who had known what he had done in the cavern.
Someone watching from the shadows.
The air felt colder. The wind shifted.
Ronan stood, tucking the parchment into his belt. He could dwell on the hunger later. Right now, he had only one thought.
If they wanted him dead… then they would have to try harder than that.
The Road Ahead
By morning, Ronan and Doomfang had moved deeper into the wilderness, far from the scene of the battle. They traveled in silence, both lost in thought.
Ronan's body still felt different. The energy hadn't faded overnight. If anything, it had settled deeper, sinking into his bones like an instinct waiting to be unleashed.
He could hear things more clearly. Feel the shift in the wind, the way the earth hummed beneath his feet. Even now, as he walked, he was aware of Doomfang's breathing, of the subtle tension in the wyvern's muscles.
And worst of all—he could still feel the hunger.
It lurked beneath his skin, patient but unrelenting.
He needed answers.
"Doomfang," he said at last, breaking the silence. "The Forsaken. Who are they?"
The wyvern exhaled through his nostrils, his golden eyes flicking toward Ronan. You already know, don't you?
Ronan frowned. "I know the name. I know I'm one of them. But that doesn't tell me what I am."
Doomfang let out a low, thoughtful growl. The Forsaken are those who walk the path between man and beast. We are not tamers. We are not summoners. We become the creatures we bind. We fuse with them, we take their strength into ourselves. And in doing so, we become something more.
Ronan's grip tightened.
The vision in the void. The beast he had seen. The way his body had moved in battle.
It was all connected.
"And this mark," Ronan muttered, pulling the parchment from his belt and showing Doomfang the insignia. "They're hunting me because of what I am?"
Doomfang studied the symbol, his eyes narrowing slightly. This is the mark of the Black Veil. An order that has existed for centuries. They have only one purpose: to kill those who walk the path of the Forsaken before they can become a threat.
Ronan exhaled slowly. "And how many of us are left?"
Doomfang hesitated.
Then, finally, he said, You may be the last.
The words hit harder than Ronan expected.
The last of the Forsaken.
The last of those who could bind not just beasts, but their very essence.
He let out a slow breath. "Then they won't stop coming, will they?"
Doomfang gave a sharp, knowing look. No. They will not.
Ronan turned his gaze forward. The road ahead stretched far and uncertain, but one thing was clear.
If they were coming for him, he had only one option.
He would have to get stronger.
Fast.
The hunt had begun.
And he refused to be prey.